Nocturne
by Neftzer
Summary: Irons and Nottingham find themselves hosts for the night to a distracting female guest. Pre-series sequel to LESSON.
1. I Stranded

pre-series, sequel to _Lesson_

**Nocturne**

_I. Stranded_

It was decidedly rare that anything should come between Kenneth Irons and what he wanted. 

'Lili' was her name, a serious storm system with two-thirds of Greenland in her grip. It had been four days since a plane had successfully taken off or landed at the International Airport in Narsarsuaq. The air traffic control tower there could not be reached via radio or satellite (assuming there was anyone still staffing it), and no amount of money or influence could change that. 

As a direct consequence, Ulaauq Christiansen, young Ian Nottingham's piano instructor, found herself in an awkward position--and internationally-known billionaire Kenneth Irons found himself in one even more awkward: that of inviting a woman he had long ago categorized as dangerous to sleep over at his home. 

When Mr. Irons' private jet had been dispatched the day prior--as it was every week--to bring her to the Valhalla estate for Ian's lesson, it had been sent to Cape Town, where she had been performing at the final stop on the three-week concert tour. 

After giving a lesson at the Valhalla estate, Christiansen had expected to return home. And Kenneth Irons had expected her to do just that. 

...to be continued... 

* * *

2002 (c) Neftzer  
I do not own _Witchblade_ or its characters, but they do bring me great enjoyment. 


	2. II Invitation

_II. Invitation_

At the end of the lesson, when he had first informed her that there was no possible alternative--and he had checked--at present to return her home due to the severe conditions, he had, of civil necessity, extended his own hospitality. He had rather hoped she would decline politely--preferring instead an opulent suite of rooms in the city; for which he would gladly have paid, apologizing all the while for the inconvenience, and sending a lavish gift basket once she was settled in. 

But it seemed that Ulaauq Christiansen would always be a source of curious vexation for Kenneth Irons; the darkly beautiful pianist had a worrisome presence, and a cool self-possession he feared to allow to interact with Ian. He had tried to make some sort of peace with the idea of her some twenty lessons ago. He had tried to reassure himself that he could, in good conscience, accept no one with lesser skill as Ian's piano instructor. And ultimately he had deferred any decision about the existence of the fetchingly controlled Greenlander in the lives of Ian Nottingham and himself. He had simply made certain arrangements, issued certain directives (among those on his staff that could control such things), that she was to be around as little as possible, her distracting exterior no match, he had found, for her enigmatic, kept-private interior. 

He could not take chances having such a woman be in contact with young Nottingham; at thirteen just now entering the most volatile stage thus-far in his carefully planned and overseen development. Beautiful, intelligent, intoxicatingly exotic women in close proximity to the boy were not a risk that, as the boy's benefactor, he was prepared to take. 

The schedule created was simple enough. She was to give Ian his weekly piano lesson (to Irons' own specifications and under the careful watch of his own eye), and then she was to leave. 

Irons tried now to envision a scenario in which she would feel compelled to decline his offer of hospitality for the night. 

But she had accepted. Which changed the tenor of the evening to come entirely. There were things to be done, decisions at which to arrive, a new dinner menu to require and co-ordinate, plans to change, calls to be made and e-mails to be sent. Three meetings alone to be cancelled. 

In short, her simple, "thank you," reply to his invitation turned Valhalla's behind-the-scenes on its very ear. Yet, "I shall have a room prepared for you. The Roosevelt, I think," was his only response, not a care or concern showing anywhere on his placid face. "Dinner is served at seven," he had said. "We assemble in the Great Room for aperitifs at six forty. If you like I will have someone sent up to help you dress." 

She had declined the offer of assistance. "How many are we?" she asked, he head tilting slightly to the right as she inclined an ear to his response. 

"A small dinner," he answered. "No guests, beyond ourselves." He could see that she was surprised. Doubtless she was used to dinner invitations extended to show her off, becoming more the entertainment than the entertained. The lines around her eyes hinted at her momentary, pleasant disbelief. 

"Will Ian be dining with us?" she asked. 

_No,_ Irons thought, keeping his displeasure at bay. _No, Ian dines alone, at five-thirty. That is the way things are done. Ian is a boy. And not a boy for frivolous dinner parties._ But he answered, "If you like," with the beginning of a slight smile, and an inclination of his head in feigned accord. 

_...to be continued..._

* * *

2002 (c) Neftzer 


	3. III Aperitifs

_III. Aperitifs_

Christiansen had arrived punctually, without getting lost on her way to the Great Room from the Roosevelt Bedroom--no easy task--and accepted the cocktail he offered her, making no special order or request for one on her own. She was always very amenable in this way on any point, never asking or requiring anything beyond what she was given--yet. Yet somehow she left him feeling as though she desired more of him, some greater expectation she would never reference, but he would always feel the lack of. It irritated him, but he chose not to let it show. He would puzzle it out sooner or later. 

She had set her hair into an elegant twist, and Irons found himself wondering if she believed the restrictions he had assigned to her for Nottingham's lessons extended to this occasion as well. She was dressed in what he recognized as an original Vivianne Westwood, elaborately embroidered; the pale cornflower blue of the strapless gown, and the way the color and fabric played against her skin, did not go unnoticed by him as she arrived through the massive bas-relief doors. And his only-slightly veiled attention to this detail did not go unnoticed by her. 

"I apologize if I am somewhat over-dressed for the evening," she said, what might have been demurely if he had been paying mind to her words. 

Instead he noted the way the gown's color seemed to reflect light (of which there was precious little in the Great Room), giving the hollow at the base of her throat--bare of necklace or ornamentation--an unusual, almost crystalline glow. He narrowed one eye, slightly, thinking of Ian, and Ian's reaction when he would first see her, standing like a prismatic illusion set against the dark wood backdrop of this somber space, her existence as seemingly impossible to explain as had he brought home a mirror ball and hung it festively from the library railing. 

"My things," she was explaining, unaware of his train of thought, "for the most part--save what was needed for the last concert--were shipped home from South Africa several days ago." 

He reproached himself. He should've thought to have sent out for something more appropriate she could have worn, something less distracting, less--charming. He should have anticipated this. If there were any way he could release and save Ian from the evening without raising her suspicions, he would do so. "You look," there was little reason to skirt the truth, "very beautiful, Christiansen." He dismissed her apology and re-directed their exchange. "It is more likely that it is I whom am _under_dressed. If you will excuse me?" He needed a moment to think, and pointed her to the section of the library where his collection of sheet music was shelved, executed a gracious bow as he left her, and changed into an appropriate-to-her-gown dinner tuxedo--instructing young Nottingham be told to do the same. 

Looking at his newly-dressed self in the mirror, Irons saw instead the reflection of the graceful slope of Christiansen's neck, and found he was unable to concentrate fully on fabricating a satisfactory story to explain Ian's absence. 

It would be only one night, he promised himself, he would keep things brief and colorless, and Ian would be left thinking more of the unpleasantness of the tie about his thirteen-year-old throat than the memory of social interaction with his captivating piano instructor. 

When Irons returned at several minutes to seven, he found Christiansen in one of the more-distant aisles of the library, settled on the floor among the many yards of her diaphanous skirt, quietly scanning an original Grieg manuscript. When he turned the corner and saw her she did not hasten to stand up, but rose slowly, returning the manuscript's pages to the shelf she had found them on, referencing neither any pleasure nor any wonder at finding them there. 

"Shall we go in?" he asked, alluding to the meal and meaning to extend his arm to her, that he might escort her to the dining room. 

But she moved to pass him before he could, and in his surprise he paused before stepping clear of the stacks and making way. She did not linger, though, and as she slid by, her slight frame unencumbered by the lack of space, her shoulder--without intent--caressed the sleeve of his coat, gliding along it like breath on silk. 

"Ian will arrive momentarily," he answered before she could ask, thinking the sooner they began the sooner he could announce an early end to the myriad dangers those such as Ulaauq Christiansen constantly presented. 

_...to be continued..._

* * *

2002 (c) Neftzer 


	4. IV Dinner

_IV. Dinner_

They dined chiefly on a vast and perfectly prepared selection of _fruits de la mer_. Irons had chosen to continue with the evening's menu--for the most part--without altering it. He had, at the last moment, once assured it was fresh, agreed to include seal with the saltwater course. 

They dined in the formal Sartre dining room, at the table that could seat twenty, he at one end, she at the other--Ian positioned to his right, mid-table. 

Christiansen was not one given to speaking over-much--at least not in his experience. Knowing this, he was well-prepared, and shouldered the weight of polite conversation. In general, any discussion between he and Christiansen did not deviate from topics directly related to the boy's lessons. 

Tonight, out of a desire to emulate a certain normalcy that he did not feel, Irons worked to make a change from that usual, acceptable pattern. They spoke of art and international affairs of state; he found her to be surprisingly knowledgeable of the many factions caught up in South African politics, and well-versed on pre-Mongolian yurt construction. Mid-way through the third course he shocked himself by casually asking her opinion on his planned restoration of 1547 deNalis, and realizing, mid-sentence, that he actually cared as to what her answer would be. From that topic on, he kept a much closer watch on both himself and the conversation.

As trained, Ian remained silent, eating more than enough to conceal the fact that a complete dinner had already been served to him an hour and a half prior. He kept his head bowed, and his eyes to himself. 

Things were going well. And then, most unexpectedly, Ian broke his silence with a voice like that of a startled child caught in a game of hide-and-seek. "Will you play?" he asked Christiansen, his chin high, his eyes wide as they waited on his tutor's response.

Irons' displeased reaction had to be swallowed quickly, and chased down with a generous sip of wine. Ian had never heard Christiansen play. He had planned to keep it so. He surveyed the situation and participants. To interfere now would accomplish nothing. He reminded himself he had not specifically forbidden the boy to speak at the meal, nor had he ever expressly stated that Ian was not to ask Christiansen to perform. 

"Whom would you like to hear?" from her seat at the table's opposite end she asked the boy in reply. 

"Whatever--" the timbre of Ian's voice at her positive reception took on a color of confidence, "you would like." 

It turned Irons' stomach to hear it. He gauged how far he might be willing to let the boy go before reining him in. 

"No, Ian," Christiansen lay down her fork and knife. "You have asked--therefore you must choose. My duty as your guest is only to accept." 

Ian turned to Irons, his head bowing--as it always should--the change itself enough to indicate that the boy did not know what to say, and had felt his master's displeasure at his unbidden outburst of familiarity toward his instructor. 

"No, no," his master agreed. "Christiansen is quite right, young Nottingham." Irons made the effort to seem jovial. "You must choose how to answer her, as would any good host." Irons stood from his place to help the piano instructor up from her seat, withdrawing her chair so that she might make her way to the Irmler grand in the attached salon, where it stayed on days when lessons were not given. Christiansen and Irons each moved to one of the two-story pocket doors which smoothly slid back, whisper-quiet, to join the two rooms so that he and Ian would have unobstructed views of her playing. 

At the threshold, Christiansen stopped, waiting for Ian's reply. 

It seemed, after all, that the boy might be about to admit, "I don't know," but he paused, visibly thoughtful, his eyes on the china and silver before him at the table. "Chopin," he said. "Please, milady." 

"Miss," Irons growled, his tone harsh as he corrected the boy's Danish. "Please, _miss_." His instincts told him Ian's slip might be less one of grammar than more something graver. Irons raised his eyebrows, to soften Christiansen's interpretation of his and Ian's exchange, and pursed his lips, deliberately appearing to be no more than mildly dismayed at his ward's need for lingual improvement. 

_...to be continued..._

* * *

2002 (c) Neftzer  
See Chapter One for disclaimers. 


	5. V Performance

_V. Performance_

As Christiansen took a seat at the Irmler, Irons recognized the need for such a full skirt on her gown. He observed a pair of slender high heels cast off near the room's entry. He felt more than saw Ian take notice of them as well. Apparently she preferred nothing come between herself and the brass pedals. The skirt could be made to hide this from discerning company such as sold-out concert halls and opera houses, and she could play, unfettered by narrow-mindedness. In such an informal venue, though, she had not wasted any time in settling the skirt to conceal her tiny, bare feet from sight. They peeked flirtatiously out from the hem of her dress, the swell of her toes and arching suppleness of her instep unconsciously massaging the brass of the foot pedals as though she had been required to polish them thus. 

In response to this display of sensuality (however unintentional), Irons turned abruptly and calculatingly to bring the full force of his gaze to rest on Ian. The boy immediately dropped his line of sight even lower than his place setting, settling it now on his clasped, gloved hands buried submissively in the darkness of his own lap. 

... 

Kenneth Irons had heard Ulaauq Christiansen play live on three occasions. Doing so had been a necessity in the final decision-making process as to whether he would indeed take her on as Ian's next instructor. Each time he had attended her in concert some twenty-four months ago, it had seemed, impossibly, that her skill, rather than diminishing over time (as it so often did for others), only increased prodigiously. 

He knew Ian had requested the Chopin on his behalf. Ian, a truculent child who had stepped out of line, knew it, and so offered a small boon in the hopes of making peace. 

Christiansen's fantastical rendering of _Etude in C Minor_ went well beyond most _I'm sorry'_s Kenneth Irons had ever been offered in his lifetime, but it would not be enough to spare young Nottingham the eventual punishment he deserved for his unacceptably brash behavior this evening. Looking over to Ian, who now wore his familiar mask of intense concentration, Irons hoped the boy knew it. Anticipation was, after all, the better part of correction. 

_...to be continued..._

* * *

2002 (c) Neftzer  
See Chapter One for disclaimers. 


	6. VI Recital

_VI. Recital_

She had barely let the last note fade when she spoke. "Will you not play for us next, Mr. Irons? I should very much like to hear you--as I'm sure would Ian." 

From where he was seated, Irons bowed at the waist in consent, and motioned Nottingham in to the salon to join Christiansen among the settees there; that furniture designed more with listening to a performance in mind than was the grand dining table. 

"I am not the professional that you are, Christiansen," Irons said, moving to the piano bench and adjusting its height. "You must indulge me if I make my own selection of what piece to perform. I have not the breadth, nor the scope, of your own repertoire." 

Smiling, Christiansen replied graciously. "Surely you belittle your skills, Mr. Irons." 

He gave her a modest, pleased smile in return, and played Stravinsky; loudly, grandly, and as discordantly as the original score with the composer's own hand-written notations mandated. 

_...to be continued..._

* * *

2002 (c) Neftzer  
See Chapter One for disclaimers. 


	7. VII Duet

_VII. Duet_

When Kenneth Irons had finished _The Bride's Chamber_ from _Les Noces_, and the applause from his audience of two abated, he stood and announced that it would soon be well past young Nottingham's bedtime. 

With a rustle of skirt, Christiansen shifted in her seat. "Do you know Killotensunter's _L'Etolie de Glace en Hiver_?" she asked him, delaying the evening's denouement.

Ian remained seated, though on any other occasion at the mere mention of his dismissal he would have been nothing more than a memory in the room. His continuing presence on the salon's Louis XVII settee did not escape his master's notice. 

"The duet?" Irons asked, his feathers ruffled as well by Christiansen's inability--or unwillingness--to behave in the fashion that he saw fit and recognize that the evening had come to an end. "Yes," he responded, as he had to say something civilized. "That is, I know part." 

"Which," she asked, moving to the bench. "The low? I shall take the high. You must listen, Ian," she charged the boy, her voice taking on a new urgency. "Notice the smooth syncopation of your benefactor's part, and the musicality with which he infuses the score." For a moment she was all instructor. "Close attention now." 

Her size proved fortunate in the logistics of occupying the single bench. Had she been much taller--or wider--she would not have fit. As it was, they suited one another perfectly, the amount of space which they occupied distracting from their playing not a bit. 

He had not shared a piano bench with another living person since Elizabeth. 

Yards of frost-colored tulle from the voluminous skirt of Christiansen's gown, having nowhere else to go, spilled over onto his knees, concealing the lap of his tuxedo trousers from him--and his unexpected invigoration at this impromptu pas de deux from her. 

They had not discussed who would take charge of the pedals before they commenced, and out of habit he had assumed the lead, settling his black Italian hand-mades in place, only to find, moments later, the insistent, sensual weight of her bare feet settled atop their laces with a pressure calling them to play as one, infused with an urgency he could not help but accept without question. 

_...to be continued..._

* * *

2002 (c) Neftzer  
See Chapter One for disclaimers. 


	8. VIII Sleep Walking

_VIII. Sleep Walking_

The Roosevelt was grand enough, Ulaauq Christiansen thought to herself, the ceiling high, the décor regal, the victim of an opulence she had rarely seen outside of the Royal Houses of Europe. Velvets and down and rich satins in jewel tones served as contrast to the carved stone walls. The bed could easily have fit three of her--and half a dogsled team--and still would not have creaked under the weight.

She lay in it and looked over to the faux front armoire that opened into the adjoining dressing room and on to the bath beyond. She had hung her gown over one of the doors, and she watched it now, in the semi-darkness, as it caught and played with the moonlight from the balcony, the gown seeming to change in both color and composition. It was the only thing in the room at that moment that she thought she could stand. The only thing that didn't make her want to start screaming or hyperventilating--that didn't make her want to weep.

She couldn't sleep in a prison such as this--no matter how exquisitely appointed it might be. 

She had tried taking a cold bath to no use. The porcelain, shot through with hot water pipes, heated the basin of the tub itself, without respect to the fact one might be filling the oval bathtub from the cold water tap for a reason. Even the towel rack was created to toast the soft towels it held to what she found an uncomfortable temperature. She had left open the French doors leading to the fourth story balcony, but even that gave her little relief. She must have passed several hours of the night lying awake in the large bed--unable to make so much as a dent in its mattress with her body's weight.

She sighed and got up. There was a mini-refrigerator in the dressing room. She went to look at it again, to seat herself in front of it with its tiny door open. _Nothing._ She began randomly opening a door here or there among the cabinets and closets, finding them empty except for a small selection of men's clothes. By their size they were Irons'. She did not question what brought them to be in this room; instead she took a tailored silk dressing gown and wrapped her small frame in it neatly, using a satin bedsheet as a makeshift obi. Thus attired, she advanced on the balcony, the long hem of the oversize dressing gown swishing behind her like a bridal train.

It was useless to try the door, she knew. It would be locked. The balcony was her only real choice for escape.

It was surprisingly easy, she found, to step onto the limestone balcony of the Valhalla estate's Roosevelt Bedroom, pull herself up, onto the railing, and skim it (she had never had trouble keeping her balance and did not suffer from vertigo) across several other balconies until she came to a room with a door open to the lighted hallway.

What she did not know was that Ian Nottingham had opened that very door for her express convenience, increasingly concerned that if he did not she would continue to precariously circle the mansion in fruitless pursuit of balcony after balcony, until ground security found her, or day broke, and Mr. Irons did.

The Witchblade had been talking to Ian. From what he could tell, what it was saying was not important enough to share with Mr. Irons, yet. Only, it was restless like him, lonely, and having trouble sleeping when it was supposed to.

Ulaauq followed the hall down to the Great Room, thinking she might pass what remained of the night most easily among some of Irons' sheet music collection. But before she could make her way up the staircase to the library, something else called to her.

Perhaps it was the fact the great fire was banked for the night, its embers glowing just enough to see by. Perhaps she had always felt this sensation when she was in the room. Perhaps it was the true impetus for her night wanderings. She did not imagine another would even notice it, the tincture it gave the air was so subtle. But it crept up from the floor to her toes like chilled electricity, a winding, satisfied desire relaxing through her spine. _Cold._ There was something nearby very Arctic, very cold, and very frozen.

She forgot the library and her previous plan, and turned instead to examine the walls opposite the fire, from where she could smell the ice. Immoveable curtains hung, covering the wall's face, but even through their heavy insulation she could feel whatever lay behind the wall was what exactly she was searching for, though she could not get to it. For the moment that sensation, however diminished, was enough.

_...to be continued..._

* * *

2002 (c) Neftzer  
See Chapter One for disclaimers. 


	9. IX Gift

_IX. Gift_

Ian found her that way sometime later. She did not explain her posture, worshipping at a wall like a Rabbi at prayer, but instead asked what he was doing up.

"Won't you come sit down?" he asked her, as though rehearsing a deportment role-play from one of his other lessons. She noticed as he remembered to extend one hand and gesture to Irons' chair positioned, as always, near the fireplace.

But she was not yet ready to surrender her newfound interest in the far wall, and sat in a nearby chair instead.

Ian walked to her side and produced a hinged jewelry box from somewhere on his person. "A gift for you," he said, offering it to her. "You should have this."

She took the box from him, not sure what was taking place, the glow of the once-impressive fire now muted, giving the room, and her thoughts, a murky atmosphere. The boy settled Indian-style at her feet, all thirteen-year-old knees and knobby elbows, his eyes looking up at her with uncommon hope and anticipation. She held back a frown and a reply, trying not to communicate the concern she felt at this uncertain turn of events. 

The silk-lined box held a primitive-looking silver cuff bracelet with a candy red stone, and if she hadn't been so off-balance in the wake of her discovery of the far wall she might have said the stone winked at her.

She did not take the bracelet out of the box, but instead, after looking at it a moment longer, asked him, "Where did you get this?"

"It was my mother's," he said. "It's mine to give," he lied, a teenage pout momentarily gracing his brow.

"I cannot accept it, you understand." This was not a talk she wished to have, really, at this time of night--in this place.

"Why?" he seemed confused, as though it were not a gift that could be rejected, as though it were an item so close to perfection that no matter what you had hoped for when you opened the box, finding it inside would put your original wish so far from your mind as to have it fall completely out of focus and memory.

"I cannot accept it because I am not your mother, Ian. I am your instructor, your teacher." She extended the box--still open, the bracelet untouched--back to him. "Your friend."

"Yes," he said, disappointed, and then added, more petulantly than she would ever have expected of him, "I know."

"Do you?" she asked, but did not expect an answer.

_...to be continued..._

* * *

2002 (c) Neftzer  
See Chapter One for disclaimers. 


	10. Parts X through XV

_X. Catechism_

Ian would not take the box back from her. It was not that he refused; only that he did not offer a hand to accept it. Moments passed and she was forced to choose between lobbing the box at him, or lowering it into her lap. She chose the latter. 

In an effort to refocus both his mood and the outcome of their encounter, she asked, "Do you like it here?" 

"Yes," he said with confidence, followed quickly by a quiet, "No." 

His answer did not surprise her--neither the initial, nor the correction. She was pleased that he felt comfortable enough with her to voice the correction aloud. She had given him a rather angry lecture on the importance of truthfulness where the artist was concerned during a recent lesson. "Then why do you stay?" 

He did not hesitate with his answer. "I want to protect Mr. Irons." 

"From whom?" She did not laugh, nor did she wish to. There was a seriousness about the boy that always engendered a similar seriousness in herself. It would be a disservice to treat him unnecessarily lightheartedly. "From me? From others? That's all you want?" 

He stood suddenly, his head sagging to the submissive angle she knew Irons to prefer. "Purity of heart," he intoned, "is to will one thing only." 

Quietly she rebutted him. "Oftentimes, purity of heart is to will nothing at all." 

Even under the weight and shadow of his bent head she saw his features contract, fleetingly confused. "But the will is the link between the soul and the universe." 

She smiled into the darkness. "Sometimes, Ian, it is enough for soul to link to soul, and for the universe to take care of itself. Come," she said, making a place for him beside her in the large chair and echoing his earlier invitation. "Won't you sit down?" 

He complied by sitting, but not beside her, instead resuming his previous seat on the floor. 

She leaned back into her chair, and asked, "Does your guardian treat you well?" 

"Yes," he said, his eyes not meeting hers. "No. Yes." And then stronger, "Yes." 

"Ian," she gripped his chin firmly in a practice-strengthened hand so that he would have to face her when he made his answer. "Do you love Mr. Irons?" 

"Yes." There was not so much as a speck of doubt in his eyes, and though he was good at lying for a thirteen-year-old, he was not good enough to fake that. 

"Do you believe that he loves you back?" 

Silence. 

She let go of his chin, and he looked away for a second, as if he saw someone else in the room--a vapor, perhaps. A memory. 

His voice, as it asked the question, became soft, almost unfamiliar to her. "Did you know my mother?" 

"Your mother." The question startled her. And then, though it was out of her line of sight, she felt the bracelet blink a second time, and she understood. "Your mother is Elizabeth Bronte." She did not question the radical nature of such a statement, nor the way in which she came to understand its inherent truth. "No, I did not," she spoke candidly. "She died before I was born." 

"Yes." She heard him say quietly, and thought when he spoke he echoed her words, "She died...before I was born." 

... 

Ulaauq had no more questions, but moved a moment later in an effort to cover her bare legs--the dressing gown's front opening like a much too-high slit, and the jewelry box she had almost forgotten slipped from her lap. Her hand went out instinctively to save it from its fall, and in rescuing it before it hit the floor her fingers touched the cold metal of the bracelet, whose stone winked its thanks to her, and she sank into a chilly, black unconsciousness. 

* * *

_XII. Punishment_

Kenneth Irons did not know what called him from his more-than comfortable bed down to the Great Room, but he had long ago learned not to quibble with any prescience he might experience from time to time, rather to make use of it to the fullest extent possible. It was no great hardship, after all, to find the dressing gown and slippers laid out for the next morning, put them on, run a comb through his hair (there had been no urgency to his feeling, after all) and walk down to the Great Room to see what was afoot. It was, doubtless, a testament to his well-deserved confidence in the security of Valhalla that he did not even quicken his pace. Ian was, after all, under lock and key in the West Tower, and Christiansen secured similarly in the East Wing. 

He entered the Great Room through the library, pausing at the railing to survey the space; the room's darkness once the fire was out usually making this task difficult at best. 

But it took only a moment for him to see the pair, as appalling to his sight as had they been found sprawled _en flagrante delicto_. The woman he had ordered covertly secured in the Roosevelt Bedroom of the East Wing was asleep in a chair at the back wall. She was wearing one of his dressing gowns, the bottom front sliding open to reveal bare legs and slipperless feet. And at those feet, also sleeping, the young boy about whom he had fretted most of the evening away--fulfilling nearly all his worst fears. Young Nottingham lay curled at her bare feet like a loyal hound, oblivious to both his master's whereabouts and intrusion; as feared, his training and senses dulled in the presence of this woman. 

Irons would not have been able to see the unlikely tableau as well as he did, though, had there not been a bright, red mist surrounding them like a soft, glowing nightlight. _The aura of the Witchblade._

Irons was down the steps in half a heartbeat. Careful not to touch the blade itself, he took the hinged jewel box from Christiansen's lap, closed it, and slid it into the relative safety of his dressing gown's pocket. 

With his right hand (the one that bore the mark of the Witchblade) still throbbing from his earlier foresight, he grabbed at the back collar of the sleeping Ian's shirt, gripping the cloth so tightly as he dragged the boy on his knees and belly across the room that Ian (now startled awake) could neither catch his breath, nor find his legs to stand. 

Once to the fireplace wall of the Great Room, He slung the weight of Nottingham into the stone, and waited. The boy struggled for breath while attempting to bury his chin even further into his collarbone. 

Irons extended a hand to help the boy up. Ian knew better than to take it, or to raise his eyes to meet his master's, burning at this moment brightly enough to consume whatever fell in his path. 

"What have you done, Ian?" Irons snarled rhetorically, his voice stern, bitter. 

Nottingham managed to stand on his own, fighting back the need to cough. 

Irons took out the jewel box that held the Witchblade and held it out. When he spoke his voice was softer, calmer, more frightening. "You have taken away my choices, do you see that? I can do one of two things. I can have Christiansen killed. Would you like that?" 

Nottingham did not look up. 

"What, no?" Irons shook his head. "No," his voice dropped an octave with the word. "Not an easy thing to accomplish, the disposal of one so famous--so world renown. Not easy, but not impossible." He paused, and smiled coldly. "And not to your liking, is it? Hmm? Then I must take her away from you, Ian. Do you see what you are making me have to do?" 

Irons stepped to the side so that Ian could see Christian, still in the chair, still enduring whatever the Witchblade had chosen to show her. "I can make that woman," Irons said, "nothing to you. She will not care about you, she will not think about you. When someone says your name to her she will feel nothing. She will never come here again unless I will it. And then she will come only for me, Ian. _For my pleasure._ Not for yours. From this day forward that woman," Irons grabbed a patch Ian's hair, elevating the boy's head so that he was looking at Christiansen full-on, "that woman is _mine_." 

A moment passed and he let go of his grasp on Ian's hair, settling the boy's dark shock of hair back in to place with a studied, gentle caress. His voice softened. "As you, my boy, are mine." He smiled as close to sincerely as Kenneth Irons ever managed, lowering his face closer to Ian's. "Your actions have forced me to do this, Ian. Things would not have come to this if you had but done as you have been taught." He shook his head regretfully. "You have left me with no choice. No choice at all. And I see now," Ian tensed with alarm, "as you look at her," Irons spoke to Nottingham as though the boy were a small child. "That I shall have to execute both options to truly take her away from you." He gave the boy a pitying look. "For she has, I see, what you think is your heart." His smile soured and his voice again morphed into one of harshness and gravel. "It is a pity that when I kill her she will not be able to give it back to you." 

Irons turned his back on Nottingham and began walking toward Christiansen. Over his shoulder he heard the young boy's breath--trained though it may be--quicken in fear of what was to come. Irons thought about demanding the boy stand watch and witness for both portions of his coming punishment, but decided instead that a grand exit would better serve at the moment, leaving the rest to the boy's well-developed imagination. 

With strong arms he lifted the still unconscious Christiansen out of the chair along the far wall of the Great Room and carried her past Nottingham, and up the winding library steps, the length of her silk dressing gown falling over his arm to reveal again the skin of her bare legs, the excess fabric trailing behind Irons as Ian looked on, and all light in the room, with his instructor's, his master's, and the Witchblade's exit, extinguished. 

Then, even alone in the darkness, he dared not move. 

* * *

_XIII. Sweet Dreams_

Ulaauq Christiansen was not asleep. She was not asleep, but she was unconscious, and in that state she was having a vision of the Ice Goddess. And the Ice Goddess looked a very great deal like archival photos she had seen of Elizabeth Bronte. She did not question this. 

In her vision a voice spoke to her, saying over and over again, _"Take,"_ beckoning her to enforce her will on whatever she chose. _"Take,"_ it whispered as she saw Ian laying at her feet, letting her know that it would help her rescue him from this place. _"Take,"_ it said when she saw, as though no longer in her body, the primitive bracelet that had winked at her. _"Take,"_ it said, and showed her Kenneth Irons coming to lift her into his embrace. _"Take."_

It was not an easy voice to resist, but there was an old story her mother had told her, that the Ice Goddess was known to be cruel, and did not give anything without asking a price, some barter in return. 

She had agreed to have the Ocean's children, but only if he would care for them. She gave seals the ability to swim--but only if Inuk could hunt them. She had helped create the world, but only if she could one day destroy it. 

_"Take,"_ said Elizabeth Bronte, the Ice Goddess, her lips not moving as she sat on a chaise lounge. She was stretched along the length of it, her skin cold, a fog surrounding her. She was missing two fingers. _"Take."_

* * *

_XIV. Goodnight_

"Uula," Kenneth Irons whispered to the unconscious woman in his arms as he entered through the door to the Roosevelt Bedroom. "Uula, will you not wake up?" he spoke it in his best East Greenlandic--which doubtless could have benefited from some polish. He needed to understand how much she had learned--how much she remembered of the evening. He had never before employed any form of her first name--let alone the familiar shortening she had once, out of politeness, offered for his use. 

She came to slowly, as though she was waking from a lazy afternoon cap nap, her back arching against his forearms as she stretched herself awake and his pulse was quickened by her movement. 

He was already to the bed with her before she opened her eyes. He did not bother to arrange her in any particular way, he did not bother to attempt some sort of feigned modesty where the front slit of the dressing gown she wore was concerned. In the moment before she opened her eyes he noted a great many things, the smoothness of her bare legs--even against silk, the length and fall of her loose dark hair against the bed's pillows, the slight tilt to her eyes, the explosion of heat that her heartbeat had effected in him as he carried her up the stairs. 

He thought of the evening's earlier duet, of the conversation at dinner. He had said her name. He said it again. "Uula." He found he wished to hear her say his. 

Things were simple now. It was no-holds-barred. This woman that he had been so wary of on Ian's account had done her damage, fulfilled the prophecy he had made for her. She now became, as he had counseled Ian, an expendable asset. He could use, abuse, or seduce her as he willed. 

He took the fingertips of his left hand and ran them lightly up the side of her exposed leg, allowing himself to wander dangerously close to inner and upper thigh. He stopped short, though, tracing tiny nonsense onto her exposed flesh. 

Her eyes were open now, though still somewhat cloudy, and she reached for his hand. His mind and body sparked to see whether she would slap it away, or direct it on its course of discovery. 

In an instant she took his small finger (still wearing his signet ring) in her hand and bent it back to the brink of pain. His right eye narrowed, and his lips pursed, but he did not struggle, choosing instead to let the scene play out. Her breath no longer the measured rhythm of sleep, she raised her left hand to his chin, taking it in her thumb and first finger. 

"Most un-professional, my dear," he said, challenging her. 

At that, her thumb slipped in between his teeth and before he could say another word her mouth was inside his, her attack more enchanting and delicious than he could ever have imagined. 

_"Take,"_ she breathed to him in a whisper of Greenlandic. 

With his free hand he peeled the neck of her dressing gown from one shoulder, resting his thumb in the hollow of her throat, his fingers kneading at her exquisitely formed collarbone. Just when his senses would forget the pain of his captured left hand in the wake of other pleasures she was affording him, she would increase the pressure, marrying a dangerous mix of breath-taking pain to the precariously sensual cocktail she was mixing for him. 

He reached his free hand to peel back the second side of her dressing gown's collar and she did not object, but when he made an effort to loosen her makeshift obi (the anticipation of the dressing gown falling away and revealing her to him wholly dominating his thoughts) though she surrendered his captive hand in response, she withdrew from their embrace, removing her mouth from his and standing up from her position on the bed. 

She did not bother to resettle the collar of the gown, but left it open as it was, he thought to tempt him. 

It did. He smiled, pleased. 

"If I must choose tonight," she said, with what he imagined might be resolve in her voice, "Between the positions of Ian's instructor, or your lover, I will choose Ian." 

"Why?" he was feeling decidedly charmed by her declaration. 

"I am no one's possession." 

He smiled more deeply, lines creasing about his eyes. "I do not believe in owning people, Uula." He deliberately made use of the familiar. 

"Do you not?" her face held no expression for him to match or gauge. 

He chose to belittle the notion, to paint it as absurd. "Why, that would be slavery!" He paused a moment as if considering her words, let his tongue wander into certain pockets of his mouth, finding he could still taste her there. "And, if I were to promise that you could both have your cake and eat it, too?" He raised his eyebrows with the question. 

"Girls in locked towers do not get cake, Mr. Irons." The fact that she clung to the formal when addressing him did not pass unnoticed. 

"You are rejecting me, then?" He allowed himself to sound mildly amused. 

"If I were rejecting you," she answered in all seriousness, "be assured you would be in no doubt of the fact." 

* * *

_XV. Parting_

"I will leave tomorrow," she announced, walking to take down her gown and place it into its garment bag. "It is well-likely there will be landings made in Thule, to the North." 

"Yes," he agreed, with all banality. "I thought so as well. I will make the necessary arrangements immediately." 

She looked at him. It was unclear what she recalled or understood from earlier in the evening. "You are too kind." 

"You need not leave," he lied, but failed to extend a further invitation. Curious, he asked, "Why do you yearn so to return there?" He knew well enough she had no family beyond a great aunt, and no romantic attachments at present. 

"I--" she paused, as though it were better not to speak the words aloud, "I miss the ice." 

He allowed the genuine puzzlement at her announcement to show on his face. It was not any answer he had expected. He moved to help her with her suitcase. 

"My fingers," she explained, "are bloated, clumsy, and useless to me in this heat. They crave the ice, as do I." 

She did not pause in what she was doing out of respect to his presence, but finished laying her very few items into the suitcase, leaving it where he had put it on the bed, and skillfully unwrapping the sheet around her waist that formed the obi. When she stood still the gown was so large it did not gape in the front, concealing her physical secrets from him. The fact that it did so did little to cool any ardor he might still feel. 

Dismissing himself, though he was not asked to go, Irons moved to the fireplace, selecting in clear view of her the correct panel that would open the passageway he was looking for. He did not need to draw attention to it, but wished to leave her with the idea of how easily he could be found--or how easily he could choose to find her. 

His last view of her came as she walked out to the balcony, laying the satin sheet on the limestone surface--no other barrier between herself and the hard, cold rock as she lay down on it. She would spend the rest of the night this way. And he knew that once the panel closed behind him the dressing gown would join the cast-off sheet and she would meet the dawn unfettered by him, by his offer, by the Witchblade, unfettered by his world entirely. She had made a choice of what to take tonight, and she had chosen nothing. It was an interesting preference. 

... 

On his way upstairs to his own bed he made arrangements to have Ian taken from the Great Room and shackled in the Tower for the rest of the night--if not longer. Irons considered making good on his threat to kill Christiansen. It was not beyond his power--it was not even beyond his inclination. In actuality he knew he would not have to end the woman's life to make her as dead to Ian. No, perhaps he would simply allow her leave in the morning, directing no one to mention her departure to the boy--at great personal loss, let young Ian believe her dead for, perhaps three weeks. _A nice vacation for Christiansen with her beloved ice._ When he felt he had made his point he could easily have her back for weekly lessons. After all, he did have Ian's studies to consider, and he had long ago decided the boy would be best served by nothing but the most preeminent tutors where his studies were concerned. 

Then again, it was never acceptable to renege on a promise--or a threat. Perhaps he would have to kill the beautiful Uula after all. 

... 

_...the end..._

* * *

**nocturne**--_belonging to night; happening, done or active by night. A dreamy or pensive piece for the piano._

* * *

by: Neftzer 2002  
_Feedback Appreciated!_

Warner Bros. owns _Witchblade_ for the moment.  
Unlike Mr. Irons, Rookie, you will never have heard of Killotensunter's charming duet _L'Etoile de Glace en Hiver_ (The Ice Star in Winter), and you will not know what a 1547 deNalis, restored or un, looks like. Nyah. Because I made them up.  
All apologies to Soren Kierkegaard by way of Esoteric Emily. I stole his quotation from her sig file. I return it to her now not so very much the worse for wear. :)  
Finally, please do not read this story whilst trying to actually imagine the characters in it wearing the fashions of the early 80s, during which it occurs. The idea of Mr. Irons and Ian be-decked so leaves me, for one, on the brink of tears. 

_For more Neftzer fiction (much that is not published here), please visit The OutBack Fiction Shack at http://www.royaltoby.com/shack, for an array of fiction and poetry from a variety of genres._


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